Disturbed night
by Kazuki Landen
Summary: When House is in pain, Wilson’s there for him. Oneshot, not slash.


Disturbed Night

By Kazuki Landen.

Author's notes: Not slash! Whatever it may look like at the start, it really isn't… maybe a little House / Wilson if you tilt your head on one side and squint really hard. This is a complete oneshot, a little ficlet to distract me from life. However, comments and criticisms are appreciated.

Thanks to my beta! Kudos to you for the quick turnaround.

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters in this little fic, they are owned by David Shore and Fox. I'm making no money from this.

Pairings: nil.

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Tugging at his pillow, Wilson fidgeted on the couch, which made his spine click. The couch creaked, and he winced, listening carefully for any sound from House's room. There was nothing, but as he relaxed back into the clutches of the cushions there was a squeak from Steve McQueen's wheel. He groaned quietly. More sleep didn't seem likely.

After a trying evening with House grating on his nerves, sleep had seemed to be his only escape. As it was, he was stuck musing over the evening's events. An argument earlier in the day over – of all things – Wilson's lunch had blossomed into an evening of uncomfortable silences, made even more uncomfortable by the sorrowful, 'starving puppy' looks House had kept turning on Wilson. Eventually, the oncologist had given up and made supper for them both. He was still mad at himself for giving in, but he knew it would probably happen again anyway.

As he lay there listening to poor Steve scurrying away on his wheel, another sound came to his ears. He sat up, the blankets falling around his legs. The sound came again – a very un-House-like whimper, from House's room; then, almost a sob, and the whimper for a third time. Wilson threw the blankets to the floor, stumbling over them in his haste to get to the older man.

He entered the room and saw House half buried under the blankets, curled up in an almost foetal position, his hands reaching below the duvet. Wilson blushed furiously, and turned away, before House whimpered again, the sound tugging Wilson back to the room. "House? You alright?"

His initial thoughts about what House had been doing were disproved when House snarled out a harsh _n__o_ from between clenched teeth. Immediately he was by the doctor's bedside resting one hand on his friend's shoulder to turn him towards him. House's face was contorted with pain, his eyes squeezed tightly shut and his hands clutching at his thigh.

"House? Where do you keep the morphine?"

No response.

"House, the _morphine_!"

House was biting his lip and almost drawing blood before he answered, in a quick, breathless voice, "Top bookshelf, green box –" he paused, nearly sobbing. Wilson was already in the lounge and reaching along the shelf. He only just managed to catch the box as it fell past him, along with several books, which thudded to the floor.

Jumping off the steps, he fumbled frantically with the clips as he heard House groan. Inside were several syringes and a small bottle of clear liquid, labelled 'morphine'.

"James, _please_!" Wilson had never heard such a tone in House's voice before, and he never wanted to hear it again. He flinched and hurried back to House's bedside; took the cap off the syringe, drew up the morphine, tapped it once, twice, and grabbed House's shoulder to look in his eyes. The blue was shocking in the darkness, and the pain in them nearly made Wilson cry out.

"Stay still, Greg. Okay?"

A mute nod and the teeth were once again biting at the lip as Wilson plunged the syringe deep into one muscled arm. A hiss and a sigh of relief as House's head fell back onto the pillow, his eyes still shut and mouth slightly open as he drew in massive gasps of breath. Blood trickled down his chin from his lip, which he'd bitten deeply.

Wilson, crouched by his bedside, sighed, recapped the syringe and threw it into the waste paper basket. "Better?"

"Much." House paused and breathed deeply. "Thank you."

"Welcome."

House licked his lips, opening his eyes and frowning at the taste of blood. Wilson handed him a tissue from the bedside cabinet and House pressed it against his lip gently, wincing.

"Greg, you think you'll be alright till morning?"

"I'm fine. Go back to sleep." The walls were back up, the icy facade once again covering the stubbled face.

Wilson sighed. "I'll see you tomorrow, House."

The clock flicked over to 4.17.

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End file.
